


Decent of the Past

by SarcasmFish (Alcyonidae)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Backstory, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-16 23:11:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8121301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alcyonidae/pseuds/SarcasmFish
Summary: A brief history of the Inquisitor at important intervals of her life.





	

At a precious 5 years old she bounced down the stairs, steps light and lively. One small hand reached to grab for her father’s while the other held the hem of her dress up away from her feet. Proper, mannered, polite for such a fledgling girl. 

The servants gazed on with faint smiles drifting on their lips. Their eyes promised an extra treat or song or story later.

“Shall we visit the stables, papa?”

A low rumbling voice responded, the pride swelling its owners chest. “Not today, my little bird. I have a new horse coming in and you have lessons with Ms. Ellis.”

“Yes, papa!” The girl beamed a brilliant smile and hopped the rest of the way down the stairs, long unbound hair shimmering in the light bursting in through the opulent windows.

“And Talia!” he called after. “Join your mother in the gardens for lunch.”

 

At 9 years of age, still so young despite what the teachers and courtiers saw, she took each step of the stairs, slow and reluctant. One hand reached to the banister, the other ensuring the hemline of her dress did not catch on her feet.

The smiling servants were absent. No father escorted her down the stairs. No mother waited for her in the gardens, blue eyes and smile matching her own. Instead, at the bottom of the steps awaited suits of shining armor, red and gold resplendent in the glittering light of the setting sun still peeking in through the high windows.

“Where are my parents?” Years of court training made the question sound somewhat brave, but it hung in the air like a party decoration left up far too long after the event had ended.

Gauntleted hands grasped her arms. Her eyes searched among the helmed gathering, seeking a familiar face or kind eye.

“Where are my parents?” This time the demand cracked and faltered, traitorous tears belaying the stiff chin that had begun to quiver.

The question remained unanswered, despite the number of times or tone she screamed it.

 

At 9 years and some months she made her way down the stairs from the apprentice dorm to the classrooms below. Frightened eyes darted over equally frightened new children, some sobbing, some screaming, others staring off into nothing.

No one watched her descend. Behind the winged helms eyes were bored or distant.

She stopped in the middle of the staircase, absorbing the younger and older students below. It reminded her of a ball, one without finery, but still a ball. From a very young age she had attended and excelled at many. Only the finest finishing schools and gowns had honed her into a small, but lethal smile.

This was just a ball, she decided then. She held her chin high, refusing the stinging of tears that attempted to push their way onto her lashes. And this was her court.

 

At 16, blossoming and shining despite the lack of sunlight in the tower, she descended the grand staircase at an unhurried pace, allowing plenty of time for those below to notice her arrival. One hand glided upon the banister while the other kept the hem of her robe from becoming trapped beneath her slippered feet.

Students from below watched her with a wary eye. Some made themselves scarce, burying faces in books or skittering off to some suddenly remembered task. Others found her and displayed a predatory grin that spoke of malice. She returned it with a wink and a pleasant smile, like a fox would wear, letting her gaze rove over the quickly depleting gathering.

At a table full of other prim faces she sat before one that shook, hands gripping a thick unread tome.

“Verona? What’s wrong?”

“It’s Marchella.” The book snapped shut, echoing in the hall that had become quiet and waiting. “She didn’t come back. Last night, they hauled her off and she didn’t come back.” Those hands now trembled with encroaching hysteria. “She didn’t come back, Talia! Another of our friends gone! What do we do?”

“I… I don’t know.” Fingernails found their way into the grooves of the well-worn wood of the table. “We… we study. We start now.”

Verona rolled her eyes, huffing a lock of golden curls from dripping into her eyes. “Study? How are staring at old books going to save us from the Templars blade now?”

Ignoring the other girl, Talia whipped the book from the table and parted the pages with a shaky hand. Verona huffed again and retreated to the apprentice quarters without a glance back.

 

At 18, new enchanter’s robes crisp and tidy, she found her way downstairs. One hand lined its way along the wall while the other clasped a worn green book to her chest.

No eyes watched her and her own scanned over the heads gathered, but otherwise took no note of any particular individual.

At the landing an armored body stopped her, causing her to step back. Templars rarely interacted with their charges. They were faceless and nameless, but here stood one with purpose.

“The Knight-Commander will speak with you.”

“Why?” she asked, sliding the book from her chest and down to her side, a place where eyes were less likely to meet it.

The armor stepped back against the wall where it always stood, filled by men and women without identity.

 

At 25 – or was it 26, or 27 – she slipped down the stairs. One hand gripped the old wooden staff with a fierce need, the other kept clasped close to her side.

Eyes hidden behind showy helms tracked her progress. She kept her own down, curtained behind short cropped hair. It was not worth risking a meeting with ones that might show violence, or worse, impatience and interest. Some shown with sympathy at her back, but she had long since learned to overlook them. She let her fingers feather over the mottled bruising along her jawline and then snapped the hand back down to her side.

Down the halls she strode, a well-worn path, one that had once been intriguing, then resisted, and now accepted. A gauntlet opened the large heavy door for her. She took in a steadying breath before entering the arena of warriors waiting to test their training against the monster with the staff.

 

At 30 she leapt down the stairs into the main receiving hall, taking them two and three at a time. At the bottom she paused, hands at the door to steady herself before stepping through into the bustling common area.

Courtiers and gossipers gathered in tiny flocks, their eyes, some hidden behind elaborate masks, immediately flew to her entrance. She lifted her chin, not in haughty bluster, but compelled confidence. 

Standing well away from the aristocracy she spotted a flicker of red and gold. Honest, careful eyes watched her stride while attempting to feign they absolutely were not. At one point in her life the attentive gaze would have filled her with fear, now it only made her feel warm and eager. There was still some confusion in regards to those feelings, but today they suffused her with purpose and longing.

Near meeting her destination she dared offer a smile to that man that was once a nameless, faceless collection of armor for her to cower from. He immediately noticed. The smile in return, the light and wonder contained within it, filled her with a stab of regret for eluding him, for fearing him for so long. The beam of his smile reigned in upon the jab of a nearby companion, a hearty blush scarcely hidden behind a sheaf of papers gripped in gloved hands.

 

At 33 she descended the stairs at leisure, no pressing worldly matters, no immediate attention, no fires to contain. The hand clasped within her right gave a light squeeze which she returned with an affectionate, doting smile. The other hand a ghost; fought for, lost, agonized, and finally accepted.

Keen eyes observed them from below, watching and assessing. The Mabari bounced to its feet and met them at the last step. The animal, the size of a small horse, nudged their joined hands with its blocky head.

“Yes, yes. It’s time for a walk isn’t it?”

She grinned at the animal and lead the way forward on their well-trod path, for once, not feeling the press of ages past.


End file.
